


You will be taken care of

by Yamxz (TightTights)



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asphyxiation, Blow Jobs, Choking, Come Swallowing, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, M/M, Odor kink, Odors, Olfactophilia, One-Shot, Verbal Humiliation, drool, mysophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 20:04:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16939791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TightTights/pseuds/Yamxz
Summary: In which Dracula introduces Godbrand to the staff of his complaints department





	You will be taken care of

**Author's Note:**

> A debauched retelling of events after Godbrand lodges his protest with Dracula himself. Please mind the tags.

Chair legs scrape against the wooden floor. Dracula rises, his soaring height wrapped up in his cape and seething anger.

"I will not be questioned by you. I have told you how it will be."

He crowds Godbrand against the bookcase, enveloping him in lengthening shadow, and though a fire blazes in the hearth, the air snaps cold. Even so, sweat beads on Godbrand's brow.

So much for renegotiating the menu. He had been on the last of his master’s good graces, he knew, and here they were now forfeit because he assumed too much. Assumed that Dracula, for all his infernal power and all his contradictions, was still a vampire. Still his kin. That he would see that his demands on his generals are going too far. That they were all there to serve his war, not suffer it.

If he were honest, he didn’t know exactly what he expected the outcome to be from the moment he stepped into that room. He treated it no differently than jumping headlong into the uncertainty of battle. Why bother to plan things ahead, when fate and fortune would inevitably have their whimsy way? So far in this insatiable unlife of his, his existence proved that their way has favored him. Yet the hateful crease in his master’s brow warned that fortune did not always favor the bold.

“Little Godbrand,” his master says, contempt coiling around his voice like a serpent. “Little vampire.”

That makes him shiver, even as more heat creeps up under his chin. His master’s eyes narrow to pinpricks.

“Little boat weevil who delights in making noise and pretending he’s important and dangerous.”

Spittle lands on his cheeks as his master’s voice rakes over Godbrand like chains, binding him to the spot. A long finger curls around his chin, tilting him upwards to meet blood-soaked eyes.

“You think I don’t know you, Godbrand? That I don’t already know that while you boast and you brag, in the end your incessant bleating and braying isn’t about the livestock at all?”

It’s more of a caress than a reprimand, and it loosens something within him that drops like a boulder, the aftershocks bolting straight to his cock. Mortified, he gulps down the sound that tries to worm its way from his throat. None too soon, for the sudden sharp sting of his master’s hand cracking across his cheek draws out a gasp, more from the surprise than from the sting that erupts a second later.

Dracula grabs his chin, stooping from his great height until their noses are mere centimeters apart. “You’re here because of something else entirely, aren’t you, my little Godbrand?”

Godbrand swallows again. Godbrand can taste his master's breath, but it’s sour, and only vaguely metallic. He hasn’t fed in a while. His brain latches onto this like a lifeline, even as the throb of his cheek has his good sense sinking fast into quicksand.

“Do I not pay enough attention to you? Is that it? Such an unruly thing, so needy for discipline.”

Godbrand jerks, desperate not to betray his desire to be struck again, to be made to truly regret his insolence. His mind bends at his own stray thoughts, the shock of their origin feeding even more strength to his arousal.

“Well?” his master demands, filling his nose again with warm, fetid breath.

“N-no,” Godbrand says weakly.

Dracula scowls. The hand around Godbrand’s chin squeezes him in a tight pinch, long nails digging into his jowls. “Oh, I think you do. I can smell it. You always carry the stench of a mongrel in rut, but it’s sharper now.” Godbrand tries to shake his head, but his master’s grip is firm, and his pointed nails begin to dig into his jaw. “Revolting creature. You wanted the attentions of your lord? You shall have it.”

Another throb spikes through his cock, yet still Godbrand tries to tear himself away. “Look, big guy, I didn’t mean-,”

“You will shut up and stay right there if you wish to keep your miserable head,” Dracula orders with a snarl, and Godbrand stills his wriggling instantly. With his other hand, Dracula throws his cape wide open, seeming to grow even taller as the cape settles behind him. It’s then Godbrand realizes his height and proximity are now in line with the obvious swell under his master’s trousers.

His fears are confirmed when Dracula says, “Attend to my belt, little vampire,” voice laced with contempt.

Godbrand’s eyes dart from the bulge behind his master’s trousers up to his pointed, baleful gaze. He has hesitated too long when his master bares his fangs and wrenches his lips open and shoves a finger inside, claw scraping over his tongue. He gags with the sudden spurt of blood that trickles down his throat.

“Now, little Godbrand, or I will slice out this wagging tongue before we even get started.”

Godbrand’s hands fly to his master. He struggles with Dracula’s merciless grip on his chin, but he smooths his hands up his master’s endless thighs, over his large hips, and hooks his fingers inside the belt clasp. He chances a glance up towards his master, and is met with only the same terrible gaze. A flash of fangs bids him to hurry it up.

Swiftly he unravels the belt, and pulls until his master’s trousers fall open. There, tucked within a wrap of undergarments, a thick, gray monstrosity lurks like a slumbering dragon nestled within its den. The pungent whiff of it has him gagging, drooling even more over the menacing claw resting on his tongue. It smells desiccated, like fruit rotting on a vine. Like if one of Hector’s reanimated dogs took a bath in the pigs’ water trough. Even as it makes him sick with fear, his own cock twitches, tightness aching against the confines of his trousers.

Fuck no, but with the sharp threat of a claw against his tongue, Godbrand pulls out the purpling head. Half-hard already, he suspects would need both of his hands plus one to cover the entirety of it at full mast. He swallows once around Dracula’s finger before the latter withdraws with a cruel swiftness. With Dracula’s cock heavy in his hand, Dracula says, “I shouldn’t have to tell you of all people what to do.”

Shit. Shit fuck, why did he have to complain about the pigs’ blood?

Yet as the rotten stench fills his nose, and before he understands it himself, he’s brushing his lips past the head of it before he presses the flat of his tongue to the underside and licking up a long, hot stripe.

“What a filthy little whore you are,” his master tells him.

Godbrand groans, just a little throaty surge of the arousal percolating within him. Yeah, this was filthy, if the rank flavor of his master’s cock was anything to go by. Yet it inexplicably draws him in again, and he latches his lips onto the side and gently sucks, then draws another line of saliva up the shaft with his tongue. He does it again, adding in a few strokes from his hand as his master plumps to full hardness. If this is how he has to apologize and save himself from being flayed alive, then so be it.

He groans again when the first droplets of his master’s pre pearls at the tip, and he swallows it down to swirl his tongue around the head. The taste is sour and briny, as overripe as the overwhelming stench would suggest, and he’s so hard himself now it hurts as he chafes against his own trousers. He ignores it in favor of sucking in as much of his master’s considerable length as he can, his lips only coming half way before meeting uncomfortable resistance at the back of his throat. He puts his back into it for the next rise and fall, fighting down his urge to retch as he takes in another half inch. His throat rumbles again in a half-suppressed moan.

“Good little Godbrand,” his master says. “I concede that you are quite a natural. But you’re still far too _noisy._ ”

Suddenly, Dracula grips the back of his head and pulls on his jaw, then shoves half his length back into his mouth. Shock forces a muffled yell from Godbrand’s throat and around the relentless girth of it, but his master spares him no quarter before pulling his hips back and shoving the rest inside. His throat is forced to spasm and adapt within seconds, lest he gag and retch himself to death around it. He can’t stop the pathetic grunts he makes around it, nor the tears the pressure of the intrusion wrings out from him.

“You are so little,” Dracula sighs, the wiry hairs of his sac just brushing Godbrand’s chin. More tears burst from his eyes from the suffocation, and his jaw clicks as Dracula finally pulls back, giving him enough space to suck in a gasp of air before the cock rams back in and dams up his aching lungs. His master doesn’t stop nor pause for one second as he ruts into his face, hard and fast. “Little vampire. Little parasite.”

Impossibly, Godbrand’s cock twitches, his balls drawing up as his master feeds his stinking cock down his throat again, again, and again. Drool pours down his chin, an obscene squelching sounds accompanying the snap and crackle of the fireplace. The clawed hand at the back of his head tears into his scalp, but hardly notices the pain as he grows more lightheaded with every savage thrust. He snorts and huffs, desperate to pull in air through his nose, but the effort seems to cost him more air than he takes in as the massive cock pushes it all right back out.

“My, just where have your little noises gone? Seems you needed something else besides my personal guarantee to finally silence you,” Dracula says through his teeth. He redoubles the grip on the scalp in his hand, holding Godbrand still as he pistons himself faster and rubs his throat raw. Hypoxia takes its hold, the only piece of flesh not turning to oxygen-deprived mush is his stubborn cock. It’s the only thing keeping him conscious as his master did as he wished.

His master’s thrusts stutter. He was going to come. Oh, hells, he was going to come.

“You will no longer question me,” his master hisses. “You will do as you are told. You will take what I give you, without so much as a mewl or a whine. Take now, my little worm!”

His master bucks into him while pulling forward, crushing hips against his face. The spasm of his cock is the only warning Godbrand gets before hot come floods past his throat, and backwash spills out around the seam of his lips. Its sour, so sour, and his vision blackens as he is forced to swallow to keep himself from inhaling any of the disgusting fluid.

“That’s it,” Dracula coos, his cock twitching with another spurt. “See how my beneficence suits you. You will be taken care of, my little whore.”

Godbrand bucks his hips. The warm splatter of his own orgasm rocks through him despite being seconds away from passing out. He gags with it, gasping when his master finally lets go and withdraws from his throat. His hips continue to buck into the air as gobs of saliva and master’s come pour out from his lips. When the last spasms of his dick abate, he collapses to his knees.

“Such a small, miserable little creature,” Dracula says. “Get up. You are not finished.”

Godbrand looks up, gulping down the foul taste staining every inch of his mouth and beard. He understands his master’s meaning when he catches on his softening cock, glistening as it hangs limp. With shaking hands, Godbrand reaches up and wipes it with his hand, brushing the excess over his trousers. He then tucks his master back in, and fastens his belt.

“Good,” his master says, as warm as the fireplace. He shrinks down to his normal stature, but stoops again until his face still looms large near Godbrand’s own. “Now, are you going to continue questioning me?”

Rough like sandpaper, Godbrand replies, “No.” Not today, he thinks, as the drying mess in his trousers turns uncomfortably tacky. Wait, _not today?_

“Then why are you still here? Get out before I slit you up the middle and bite out your heart.”

He stumbles from the chambers, his legs barely keeping him upright.  His lungs are aching, his nerves are singing.  Shit. Shit shit shit. He hopes to fate and fortune that no one will see him in his state before he can make it to the privy, the sharp taste of his master still lingering in every crevice of his mouth. His spent dick twitches valiantly again, at the whole damned mindfuck of it all, his traitorous brain wondering if his master won’t to dole out a reminder now and again, or simply choose to kill him on the spot. He swallows thickly, uncertain whether he sees the downside.

“Godbrand.”

He stops mid-stride, flinching at the icy feminine voice calling to him. Carmilla.

He turns. The front of his trousers are still dark, his red beard crusty with his master’s come. He endures her look of contempt she levels at him before his ravaged state upturns her brow.

Fate and fortune can go fuck themselves.


End file.
